


You can sleep when you're dead

by Moonprincess92



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Drama, F/M, The X-Files Revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonprincess92/pseuds/Moonprincess92
Summary: He’s died once before, you know. He’s already played this game.





	

He’s died once before, you know. He’s already played this game.

At first he didn’t know if he was actually dead, dying or some other thing in between. It’s pain, it’s confusion and then it’s just all black. But then he starts to see the memories, one by one, just like last time, and eventually comes to the forgone conclusion that he must be, in fact, dead.

You can dodge, you can duck, but you apparently can’t outrun a bullet.

The first thing that his brain decides to focus on is a coffee mug. He knows nothing else. Experience tells him that he and this mug are going to become very well acquainted, since all he can see, all he can feel is the coffee mug, and perhaps his brain could’ve picked something a little more substantial, but it’s ok for now. The memory is clear, the mug sitting on the nightstand with the rays of the early sun beaming down onto it. Steam is curling up from the rim, dancing as his breath distorts the waves. The mug itself is chipped from the time she accidentally clipped the edge of a doorframe. He can’t picture that memory. He struggles despite himself, but he knows it’s no use. All he sees is the coffee mug. But he knows that’s how the adorable chip ended up in the porcelain, that at some point her slender hand must’ve held the handle. The image of the mug sitting in the sun plays behind his eyes over and over. He knows that there’s more to this memory, but of course, death won’t allow that kind of comfort.

His brain picks a better one next.

He focuses on shoes now. Two pairs, strewn together at the foot of a bed. _My bed_ , he thinks, before the rest of that memory is quickly denied him as well. All he can see is the shoes, and it’s almost as non-descript as the first memory, except he knows there’s a significance to it somehow. This memory was of so long ago, back to a time when everything was in a shambles and yet, everything was also kind of ok. He remembers walking in (walking in _where_ , his brain won’t let him remember) and seeing the two pairs of shoes scattered at the foot of the bed. One is a pair of sneakers, large and scuffed and stained with dirt. The other, a pair of leather ankle boots, much smaller, and apparently in the same level of disrepair. Clearly, the shoes have been tossed there together and his heart swells when he walks in and sees them. It means something. _It means something_.

What the hell does it mean?

Now the memory is a voice, not an image. That is new. He doesn’t remember this happening the last time he died, but he’ll take anything over the monotony of seemingly endless images of his apparently pathetic life. Now, he sees nothing, but he hears a voice. It’s familiar and female and she’s sighing exasperatedly. _“You know, sometimes I really question my life choices,”_ the voice says. The tone is frustrated, but he thinks there’s a hint of warmth there. Like maybe, she’s also smiling. What life choices did this woman make? Where does she fit into his life? He wants to remember her so badly everything aches and suddenly –

* * *

_It’s an onslaught of sensation. Screaming. Flashing lights. Hands pressed hard into his chest. Someone yelling stats and the pounding of heavy feet. Gunshots. More gunshots. A voice, that same voice, somehow calm and yet shaky with panic all at the same time –_

_“Mulder, you stay with me! Listen to me, I swear to God you are not dying now, listen to my voice–”_

* * *

And just as soon as it’s starting to register, death pulls him back under.

The memories are taking on a harder edge now. Like death is trying to hold onto him, grasping him so tightly in its claws that the nails are digging in, drawing blood. Each memory is forced into his brain, dutifully offering him comfort, but never quite enough. There’s always something hovering at the edge.

He’s given the memory of a baby now and to his surprise, this memory hurts. The baby ( _a boy,_ he whispers) is pressed into his arms, squalling and pink-faced and he can’t be anything more than a few days old, _and it hurts_. He strains so much, wanting to know everything about this baby, how it came to be in his arms, why his chest screams just from looking at him. Why is there so much pain surrounding him? His love for the child is intense, but so is the guilt and grief. He gently offers a finger, the child tugging on it with his entire fist, and his fussing calms down. God, he wants to cry. What the hell happened to this child? _Why does it feel like someone just shot him in the chest?_

He doesn’t want this memory.

As if it hears him, his brain gives him another one, and he is so tired. Death is supposed to be peaceful. _You can sleep when you’re dead_ , they say, and it’s a goddamn lie. Death is anything but peaceful. His brain flits through memories in rapid fire, barely giving him a chance to focus on any one thing. He remembers a blazer jacket that isn’t his, tossed over the back of a couch. He remembers a fish tank, bubbling blue. He remembers an alien, but he isn’t sure if that was a real memory or whether it was a dream. He remembers the back of someone’s head, the shock of red hair his focus point, something to keep running after. _Don’t look away!_ He remembers a paper heart. He remembers a young girl with dark curls, hugging him as tight as she can. He remembers a sheet of paper, results of a test of some kind, and he’s only allowed to recognise the word ‘remission’.

He remembers tears, his own maybe, or perhaps someone else’s as he kisses a forehead. He remembers laughter. He remembers a ridiculous debate about the existence of Bigfoot. A house in the countryside and someone stretching onto their tip-toes to give him a breath-taking kiss. A blanket gently draped over his shoulders. A body pressed close to his. Someone reaching out and shaking his hand,

_“I’m Dana Scully, I’ve been assigned to work with you–”_

* * *

“Sc … Sculllll …”

“Oh my god–” He still can’t tell what is happening, but it’s suddenly back. The lights, the sirens, the running and the yelling. And she is there, thank god she’s there. His Scully, Dana Scully, is there, leaning over him, her hands covered in blood. His blood? There’s something on his chest, maybe holding the blood back in. He can’t quite figure it all out, there people everywhere, and he just wants to focus on her. In death, he could never remember her properly. He was given snippets, enough to make him remember that there was someone, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He would always need to know who it was, who she was, and here she is, red hands shaking as she apparently saves his life yet again.

“You’re alive, you’re alive – oh my god–” She chokes back a sob. “Mulder, listen, I want you to listen to me – you’ve been shot, but you’re going to be ok. We were on a case, and you were an idiot, you didn’t get out of the way in time – but you’re going to be all right. We’re going to take you to hospital now, ok?”

He wants to tell her yes, I hear you. I’ll be ok. You’ll be ok. He wants to take her hand and hold her close. But he’s exhausted and he’s unafraid to sink into the blackness now. This is different from death.

In his dreams, he gets to remember all of her. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have written fanfiction for so many years, yet this is the first time I've branched out and written for TXF (it's taken a while, but finally this fandom has dragged me into the fanfic world). I hope you all liked it! xoxo


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